


linens whisper, wrists held down

by orphan_account



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: Gun Kink, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-09
Updated: 2015-05-09
Packaged: 2018-03-29 19:33:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3907984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>trevor doesnt like to beg, but goddamnit, he will beg for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	linens whisper, wrists held down

**Author's Note:**

> titles taken from ludo's [all the stars in texas](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-VqNKz1wBgM)
> 
> warning for gunplay and some mentions of trevor getting treated like shit

Trevor is used to the dangers of blurring of pain and pleasure. He’s used to Michael hitting him and binding him and putting out cigarettes on him and generally doing anything to him he wants. Trevor likes it. Anything Michael does to him that he does not do to Amanda is a personal victory. Any pain Michael puts him through feels like ecstasy when it comes from his hands.

Which is why he is now bound to the rusting iron bars of their headboard with a scarf tied too-tight around his wrists, writhing on damp motel sheets as Michael pinches his skin with one hand and finger fucks him with the other. He is practically incoherent; this is one of the nights where Michael seems to have both infinite time and infinite patience. They’ve been at this for hours, now. Michael has come twice now, and he’s working Trevor towards his fourth orgasm as the clock by their bed ticks over to three am. 

Trevor squirms, straining against his bonds to press his body upwards towards Michael’s burning touch. He keeps his thighs parted, tense and quivering while Michael stretches him open, whispering filth about how hot and tight he is as he ruts against his bare thigh. He works him until he’s got three fingers inside him, and Michael has been with Amanda and the new goddamn baby (James, after Michael, which is fucking annoying) for the last moth and Trevor just wants to get fucked, for god’s sake, but Michael is taking his merry time.

Finally, Michael pulls his fingers out of him and Trevor thinks he’s going to get what he’s waited so patiently for. Instead, Michael pushes himself off the mattress and heads to where he discarded his bag on the floor when they stumbled into the room fresh off a job hours ago. He watches as Michael tosses aside stacks of cash and piles of old clothes, fumbling around in the corner for fuck knows what.

Trevor whines, desperate for Michael’s return, his neglected cock twitching and leaking on his stomach while Michael rifles around in his bag. Finally Michael stands, his pistol in his hand. It catches the light from a streetlamp outside, throwing it across the floor until Michael pulls it closer to his chest, fiddling like he would remove the clip. 

He doesn’t. He flicks the safety off and back on again (an old tic Trevor recognizes from long, long ago) and stalks back to the bed, swinging his legs over Trevor’s thighs and planting himself there. Michael presses the barrel against Trevor’s jaw line loosely, but Trevor tilts his chin back to look up at him and inadvertently pushes it into his pulse point, the cool metal refreshing on his hot skin. Michael growls.

“Do it.” Trevor goads. Michael won’t, of course, but Trevor sees the way his eyes gleam and his dick throbs. If there's anything Trevor can do to turn Michael on, it's to hand him power. 

“You’d get off on that, wouldn’t you?” Michael snarls, sliding the gun down his throat until it rests over his heart, Michael’s spare hand stroking over Trevor’s side absently. Trevor rolls his hips, trying to catch some friction, but Michael lifts himself up to keep Trevor from getting it, a smug sneer playing over his features. He has time. 

“Yes.” Trevor grits out, tugging against his bonds again as he tries to pull himself closer to Michael. He wants Michael to fuck him already, but Michael is obsessed with this damn gun. He’s trailing it up his neck again, pressing it into his Adam’s apple briefly before he puts it where he really wants it: Trevor’s mouth.

Trevor drops his jaw obediently when the smooth, round muzzle touches his lips, darting his tongue out to trace its shape before sucking it in. It knocks against his teeth loudly, the rough, scored texture of the metal scraping his gums painfully. Michael presses it deeper, until the end is butting against the back of Trevor’s throat and drool is slipping down the side of his chin as he tries to breathe. Trevor does his best to keep his eyes up, batting his lashes when Michael suppresses moans between those ever-shut lips. 

Eventually, Michael takes the gun from his mouth, easing it out of his throat even as Trevor chases it with his tongue. He places it instead, slick with spit and the lube still glistening between Trevor’s thighs, at Trevor’s asshole. Trevor hisses, understanding perfectly what Michael wants. He watches the look of concentration on Michael’s face as he lines up the weapon, pressing it against the hole his fingers had loosened until he’s managed to work the first half of the barrel inside of him, both of them breathing hard and squirming against each other. 

Trevor gasps, wishing for a moment that his hands were free so he could clutch Michael close to him, but the look in his eyes is enough to subdue him. Michael is staring at him like he’s holding the world between his thighs, like he’s the beginning and end of everything he’s ever wanted, like he could possibly, maybe, somehow love him. Trevor’s breath catches. 

But then Michael looks down and the moment passes and Michael has his gun inside him to the handle and Trevor is curling his toes and panting because the metal is hard and unyielding but so, so damn good. He clenches down, testing the sensation, and groans when the sturdy shape pushes against his prostate. He doesn’t remember closing his eyes but he has to open them now, looking into Michael’s flushed face and finding himself breathless when he sees the fire in his eyes. Michael looks like his mouth is practically watering. Trevor works his legs open farther and rolls his hips dramatically, wrenching a groan from Michael’s thin, pinched lips.

“Fuck, Trevor.” Michael murmurs, moving his hand from Trevor’s hip to the inside of his thigh, forcing his legs to stay wide before him. Trevor moans throatily, arching his back to give Michael a better view, and though Trevor is sure he’ll get blamed for the noise, it’s Michael who whimpers at the look of him.

If Trevor didn’t know him, he could almost mistake the slow movement of Michael’s hand as he begins to pulse the barrel in and out of him as reverence or love, but he _does_ know him. Michael is enjoying himself. He won’t rush until it suits him. Trevor wants to dig his nails into that creamy skin, into those hard muscles, but he can’t. He flexes his arms uselessly. Michael chuckles. 

“Stay still.” He says, eyes sparkling with smug pleasure when they catch Trevor’s.

“You’re such a dickhead.” Trevor snaps, and Michael laughs and twists the butt of his pistol so it moves inside him and Trevor bucks and swears and gives Michael all the power he wants. 

Michael has turned the thing upside-down so that the handle (and the trigger, Trevor notes) rest flush against his balls, giving him only a ghost of the pressure he really needs. Michael’s hand is still trailing over his inner thigh, pinching or kneading occasionally as he pets the skin there. He loves to watch Trevor squirm. Son of a bitch.

“Michael,” He doesn’t want to beg, but Michael hasn’t been inside him in weeks—which feel like years—and he’s desperate for him; “Michael, please.” His voice cracks, but he keeps his gaze steady. Michael’s eyes are shot nearly black, with barely a halo of blue around his expanded pupil. He licks his lips.

“Please, what?” He asks, though he knows the answer. He presses the ball of his palm against the pistol and Trevor pants, cock pulsing with desire. 

“Please fuck me.” He gasps at last, but as he expected, Michael just snorts and shakes his head.

“Maybe after this.” He says firmly, rocking his hand again so that Trevor sees stars. “I think I like you split open on an accessory to murder.” Michael purrs, and Trevor wants to roll his eyes because who says shit like that, but then Michael is practically on top of him, his lips pressed to Trevor’s ear and his breath is so hot that it almost burns; “I killed someone with this,” Michael hisses, “and now I’m fucking you with it and you’re going to come with my gun in your ass because you’re a psycho who loves violence. Do it. Come, Trevor.” 

Trevor wants to roll his eyes again since Michael is obviously projecting, but the movement of his hand feels incredible and Michael commanding him to come has always done something to his insides and his toes are curling and he’s arching into Michael’s touch and he can’t breathe, he cant’s breathe, _shit_. He doesn’t hear himself telling Michael he loves him but he knows that he must have because Michael digs his nails into his skin and shushes him, and his vision is swimming and he’s panting and there’s a wet patch of come cooling rapidly against his stomach. Fuck.

Michael tugs the handle of the pistol and Trevor clenches around it, whimpering softly as Michael pulls it free in spite of his protests. Michael’s still hard, the perfect pink head of his cock weeping as he thrusts briefly against Trevor’s thigh, grunting when Trevor rocks back in time to provide pressure for him. 

Trevor is breathless and limp, his limbs useless until he has a moment of rest, but Michael is relentless. He moves between Trevor’s legs, first pressing the tip of his dick shallowly inside Trevor and positioning him the way he wants him. Trevor is sensitive and the pleasure is almost painful when Michael sinks inside him fully, ripping a bone-deep moan from both of them when they’re finally joined. Michael fucks him without mercy, biting his neck and collar and shoulders while Trevor spasms and whines, ravaged by the power in Michael’s strokes.

Michael is touching him everywhere, his fingers digging into his ribs and his tongue swiping over the stubble on his jaw, exploring Trevor like he’s an untouched mountain range. Trevor sounds pitiful even to his own ears, every one of Michael’s movements drawing a mewling whimper from his lips, the sensitivity of his post-orgasm body making it impossible to think straight. 

“S—shit, Michael, _ohhh, fuck_.” He hisses, his cock beginning to twitch in interest again, but Michael is sweating and groaning and he’s almost certain that he won’t be hard again until after Michael comes. 

“Trevor,” Michael pants his name, dragging it out on his tongue as he goes to pull out of him, but Trevor wraps his legs around the back of Michael’s thighs and brings him closer, desperate for a moment of feeling like he matters, like he’s something loveable, like he’s worth coming inside of, for god’s sake.  
Michael gets the message and swears, thrusting with enough force to knock Trevor’s head against the iron bars of the headboard, but he doesn’t give a shit. Michael groans his name long and slow, his eyes squeezing shut as he orgasms, emptying into Trevor with an almost inhuman howl. 

Trevor is half hard when Michael rolls off of him, breathing hard and flushed on the bed next to him. He waves his hand at Trevor’s cock dismissively.

“Give me a minute, man.” He says. Trevor grunts. Come and lube are dripping out of his ass and onto the sheets, his wrists hurt like hell, and there’s a loaded gun somewhere on the bed. But try as he might, he can’t think of a damn place he would rather be. Nothing feels better than this. Not flying, not getting away with a crime, not _anything_. 

He is hopelessly in love with Michael. He whispers it so softly that it’s more a movement of his lips than an actual statement. If Michael hears, he doesn’t show it.


End file.
